Stuart Pawson - Some By Fire

"Get a job," he mumbled.

"And what chance do you think you'd have with a criminal record?"

"Dunno."

"If you had six people apply for a job and one had a record, who would you choose?"

"One of the others."

"Right."

I told him that shoplifting cost every man, woman and child in the country about a hundred pounds a year and ranted on until I reached the point where I was boring him. He signed to accept the caution and I kicked him out. His mother apologised and swore he wouldn't be back.

Funny thing is, most of them don't come back.

The other two were much the same. I made a coffee with Adey's fixings and read the contents of his in-tray. That was much the same, too.

There was a canister of a new CS gas in his drawer that he was supposed to be appraising. I gave a bluebottle on his window a quick squirt and it keeled over. Good stuff, I thought as I closed his door behind me, tears running down my cheeks.

Fresh air, that's what I needed. I cleared my desk and went for a wander round the town centre. I have a policeman's eye for detail, the unusual, and girls' legs. The warm weather certainly brings them out.

The new mall has taken a lot of trade from the high street shops, and the place is a ghost town through the week compared to a few years ago.

The only street vendor at work was O'Keefe, at his usual place near the entrance to the market. He'd be tall if he straightened his back, with a craggy complexion eroded by years of neglect and outdoor life. He plays the Old Soldier, unable to work because of the wounds he suffered in Korea and, later, the Falklands. Soon it'll be the Gulf.

His right eye has a wedge of white where it ought to be brown and it points off to the side. O'Keefe sells jeans and football shirts.

"Anything my size, O'Keefe?" I said.

"Ello, Mr. Priest," he replied warily. "Didn't recognise you for a minute. All a bit short in the leg for you, I'd say."

"How much are the Town shirts?"

"Eighteen quid to friends. Cost you forty-two at the club shop."

"Are they any good?"

"Course they're any good. They're just the same. No middle man, that's the deal."

"And no rates, rent, electricity, National Insurance and so on. How's business?"

"Pretty fair, Mr. Priest. Pretty fair. And with you?"

"Oh, you know. It's a bit like sex. Even when it's bad, it's good. Or so I'm told."

He threw his head back and guffawed, the afternoon sun shining straight into his mouth and illuminating his teeth like a row of rotting sea de fences "You're a case, Mr. Priest," he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

"Anything to tell me?" I asked.

"Aye, there is sum mat

"Go on."

"Pickpockets, Saturday morning. About five of 'em. Not from round 'ere."

"I'll send someone to have a word with you. What about burglars?

Someone is causing me a lot of grief."

"You mean, these where they ties 'em up? Old folk?"

"Mm' "Nasty jobs, them, boss. I'll let you know if I 'ear owl."

"Ask around, will you? They take orders for stuff they can buy on credit cards. Expensive stuff, like sets of alloy wheels and televisions. Washing machines, anything like that."

"Right."

"One more thing," I began. "Find another pitch at the weekend. We're having a crackdown. Spread the word if you want to earn some kudos, then ask about the burglars."

"Yeah. Right. Thanks, Mr. Priest. Thanks a lot."

It was only half past four, but I went home. I rang the office, had a shower and set the alarm clock for seven. When it rattled into life I thought it was early morning and nearly went back to work, but the jaunty tones of the Archers signature tune saved me.

The prawn cocktail was tasteless, the steak dry and the mushrooms like bits of inner tube dipped in oil. I'd have preferred a curry but Jacquie doesn't eat them she has her customers to consider. She had to be up early so I forsook the massage and dropped her off at the door.

My ansa phone was beeping when I arrived home.

"Hello, Uncle Charles," a female voice said. "If you are home before midnight could you please give me a ring." It was my favourite woman:

Dave's daughter Sophie. Apart from my mother, my previous girlfriend was the only person who had ever called me Charles. Sophie had been as besotted by her as I was and almost as devastated when she left.

Calling me by my Sunday name was an echo from the past. I sat down on the telephone seat and drummed my fingers on my knee, just for a moment wishing that things were different. But they weren't. Never would be.

Never could be. I dialled Sparky's number.

His son, Daniel, answered the phone. "Is that Mustapha?" I whispered.

He said: "If you're another one who wants to know if the coast's clear, ring the flipping coast guard I said: "There were some very handsome camels for sale at the market today."

He said: "A handsome camel has a price beyond rubies."

I said: "Beyond Ruby's what?"

Sophie's voice in the background asked: "Is that Uncle Charles?" and Daniel said: "Hang on, Charlie, Slack Gladys wants a word with you," rapidly followed by: "Owl That hurt!" He's four years younger than she is and a good foot shorter.

"Hello, Uncle Charles," she began, 'did you have a nice meal?"

"Not really. That sounded painful."

"Mmm, it did hurt my hand a bit. It was me who found her."

"Found who?"

"The girl with purple hair, of course. She's called Melissa. Melissa Youngman."

I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. Tonight I'd gone out smart. "You found her?" I repeated.

"Just after lunch. It was looking hopeless, so I said to myself: "What course was a weirdo most likely to be on? Let's try psychology." I rang one of the postgraduates who still lives in Leeds and she remembered her, told us that she was called Melissa Youngman and had been the first punk at the university. Brilliant, aren't I?"

I told her she was. I wanted to take her in my arms and hug her, squeeze her to pieces, ask her to marry me, but she was only eighteen and there were three miles of telephone cable between us. And I'd have caught hell from her dad.

The weather was breaking. The Saturday-morning forecast said widespread thunder, followed by a cooler spell. I breakfasted early and gathered my walking gear together. I'd have a couple of hours in the office then hotfoot it up into the Dales for the afternoon. I was taking my boots out to the car when I saw him.

The spider, that is. It was a dewy morning and he was suspended in space, halfway between the wing mirror and the outside light, welding a cross-member into position. I pretended not to notice him as I sidled down the side of the house, then I struck. "Yaaah!" I yelled and severed his web with a well-aimed karate chop. He fell to the ground, rolled expertly back on to his feet with a bewildered look on his face and fled for safety under the front tyre. He was definitely having a bad hair day. I flexed my fingers but no damage was done. Weight for weight, spider web is six times stronger than high-tensile steel.

Dave came in and told me all about it over bacon sandwiches in the canteen. They'd been getting nowhere fast until Sophie had her brain wave Jeremy in the students' office had taken her to the pub for lunch, much to Dad's disgruntlement, and she'd come back with the idea about looking for courses that might attract someone with purple hair.

Psychology had been the first guess. Dave suspected it was really Jeremy who'd thought of it, but who cares? It had saved us ploughing through several thousand records.

"I'd better buy her a present," I said. "She's saved the tax payers a few quid."

"Er, not another Alice Cooper CD, if you don't mind," Dave requested.

"Why? What's wrong with Alice Cooper?"